


With eyes shut tight

by likingthistoomuch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ignorant Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Separation, Stoic Molly, determined Molly, under the same roof, uuugggh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likingthistoomuch/pseuds/likingthistoomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Sherlock are married, but living the life of an employer and employee. Would things change in the future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I am sorry Lady Holmes but I seem to have misheard what you just said.”  
“No Molly. You heard perfectly well. I know this sounds foolhardy and like I have lost my marbles. But I would like for you to marry my son Sherlock.”  
  
Molly shook her head slightly, not believing the words the woman in front of her was saying. She turned to her guardian, Mrs.Hudson, with a frown on her face.  
  
“It’s correct, my dear. Lady Holmes wants you to marry the younger Lord Holmes. It seems to be the only way to ensure he wouldn’t get up to any more mischief.”  
  
Molly turned her confused gaze back to the lady of the manor who looked terribly worried.  
  
“He was about to marry Irene Adler, just to spite his brother and to stop us from broaching the subject of his marriage. Now Irene is a lovely and clever girl but I cannot ignore the scandal that seems to follow her everywhere…I will not have my family’s name sullied.” Lady Holmes paused before approaching Molly, her steps hesitant.  
  
“He seems to tolerate you, and you seem to put up with his behaviour…you are the only help I know who has not left his room in tears. Of course it comforts me that Mrs Hudson here has the highest regard for you. Sherlock is to leave for London soon and I fear what further mischief that boy will make just to irk us. Knowing you are taking care of him will ease a huge burden off my shoulders.”  
  
Lady Holmes held Molly’s hands, desperation clearly written on her face. “Please agree to this Molly, I know I ask for a lot but you are my only hope.”  
  
And that’s how it happened. Miss Molly Hooper, an unemployed governess making ends meet by helping her guardian Mrs Hudson in taking care of the Holmes Manor, became Mrs Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The wedding was short and quick, attended by a quiet and stoic bride, a very reluctant groom, his mother, older brother and Mrs Hudson. The newly-weds left immediately for London to minimise gossip and scandal that was sure to follow.  
  
Molly had always had realistic dreams about her future, aiming to have a decent companion and a solid roof over her head. Life hadn’t been too kind to the poor orphan. Not all her employees had been considerate, not all the words falling on her ears had been kind and not all her experiences had been painless. So she had toughened up.  
  
Time spent feeling sad or lonely might interfere with completing her chores on time. A helpless feeling might cause distraction. Getting involved in any way would only make things hard when the time rose to move to the next job.  
  
She had learnt to separate her emotions from the reality around her and though sometimes it led to her colleagues calling her ‘stone-hearted’ or ‘cold’, she knew it was the best approach. It was wise not to get too comfortable.  
  
So Molly approached her marriage the same way she did any new task, with dedication, devotion and utter concentration on the final expected result. She knew her real purpose; to keep the younger Lord Holmes at peace and out of trouble.  
  
And the best way to do this was to leave him alone.  
  
Having moved from the country to her new dwellings in London, Molly immediately fell into her new role of managing her husband’s house. She got the place in top shape, employing new people to help setting up 221B Baker Street as the place her husband wanted. If there was gossip about the relatively young housekeeper Mr Holmes employed, it was quickly brushed away when the new employees dealt with her cool and distant demeanour. And Sherlock never introduced her or even remotely behaved with her as his wife, so Molly didn’t bother correcting them.  
  
She treated her husband as an employer, ensuring all his needs were anticipated and taken care of. After all, her training as a governess had exposed her to science of the world as well as dealing with tantrums.  
  
Sherlock found himself pretty satisfied with his new situation. His mother and brother were off his back about getting married and he was now free to do what he always wanted: solve mysteries. He met and befriended an army doctor, Dr Watson, and things started moving smoothly. He did not interfere with his wife’s routine and she ensured that there was minimum need for interaction with him. The world thought he was lucky to get a housekeeper with a strong stomach for his experiments and calm mind to deal with his mostly socially unacceptable behaviour.  
  
And thus it would have continued but for a small case. Where the criminal they were chasing tracked Sherlock home and attacked him. Taken by surprise, he suffered some injury before getting into a tussle with the well-built thug and eventually overcoming him. Molly played no small role in it, causing acute damage with the frying pan, but not before sustaining a deep cut on her arm from the thug’s knife. It was Sherlock who realised she was bleeding profusely.  
  
“It was brave but foolish of you to get involved…” he berated her as he bandaged the cut.  
  
“It wouldn’t have been the first time Mr Holmes.”  
  
It was later that night, when the thug was in jail and his parlour rearranged that Sherlock gave thought to his wife’s partying words. A few things about the evening disturbed him. He had experienced an instant of panic when the criminal had approached Molly with the raised knife and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the blood on her arm. The rage with which he had attacked and subdued the man seemed to stem from the fact that his wife had been hurt.  
  
His wife!!!  
  
Since when had he started to refer to Molly like that? It had been more than two years of their arrangement and it was working perfectly in all ways. Yet Sherlock felt rattled by the events of that evening. That and the stoic way Molly seem to take the incident in her stride, working the next day as if the previous night’s excitement was imaginary.  
  
He had always admired her quiet ways, her tolerant approach to his experiments, her improvement as she helped him in his small laboratory, her estimation of his needs…Having always looked upon her as someone who made his life easier, who took care of him, he now started to see her as the person she was.  
  
And she surprised him.  
  
She was intelligent, her mind sharp and grasping of most of the things he threw at her. She was a task master but kind. She ran a strict household but was generous. And she was selfless. He realised that she thought of herself last, putting everyone else ahead. And she did this unconsciously.  
  
Looking at her, observing her, Sherlock realised that he had indeed been lucky and wise to have agreed to the arrangement his mother had suggested. He now found her qualities attractive…he found her attractive. This realisation made him more aware of her, her presence bringing him a warmth that he had not earlier noticed. 221B Baker Street, his house, now felt like his home. And she was responsible.  
  
He had nonchalantly mentioned this fact to Dr Watson, without taking a name.  
  
“You are talking about Miss Hooper I assume?” The good doctor asked hesitantly.  
  
“I mean my wife.”  
  
“Who?” came the confused query.  
  
“Molly, of course.”  
  
“You mean Miss Hooper?”  
  
“I mean Mrs Holmes.”  
  
“Mrs Holmes? Who is Mrs Holmes?”  
  
“You have met her, she lives with me.”  
  
“I have met your housekeeper, Holmes.”  
  
“What? What housekeeper?”  
  
“Have you taken something? Because God help me you are making no sense.”  
  
“Why have you turned so daft? Molly, who you refer to as Miss Hooper, happens to be my legally wedded wife and not my housekeeper. Where the devil did you get that impression?”  
  
Dr Watson stared unbelievably at his friend, wondering what new medication or solution he had tried, when the said woman herself turned up to announce dinner.  
  
“Molly, the good doctor here has the impression that you are my housekeeper. Pray tell him the truth…no wonder you are not the detective here, my dear man.” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
  
Molly blinked, her face losing some colour. Dr Watson immediately got up and approached her, apologising for his friends behaviour which he believed was caused by some narcotics.  
  
She gave him a small smile and corrected him, “We were wed in front of the Holy Lord and Mr Holmes’ family. I believe that makes me his wife, but that doesn’t mean I am not his housekeeper...Dinner is hot and served”, saying which she turned and left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the character of John Watson, especially in this chapter. Thanks a lot for the lovely reviews and response. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it.

Awkward was a word that found a new definition in Dr Watson’s dictionary. As they sat down for dinner, he tried to make Sherlock invite Molly to join them but all his hints fell on deaf, or rather, ignorant ears. So he finally asked her himself.

“But I-I can’t…I don’t dine here. I will have my meal afterwards.”

Dr Watson’s protest was cut short by Sherlock. “It’s ok Watson. That’s been her routine for the past two years, no need to change something that works!!”

As Molly served them and left the room, the doctor was left to make sense of the weird situation presented in front of him. He was shaken out of his deep thoughts by the sound of his friend laughing. Loudly.

“Pray tell what’s so funny Holmes.” His tone sharing none of his friend’s mirth.

“You actually thought that Molly was my housekeeper! My _housekeeper_! How ignorant can you get Watson?” Sherlock snickered.

“Ignorant??” The doctor was clearly not amused. “Oh this is rich! I don’t think it’s me who is ignorant here Holmes. The _entire_ _household_ thinks that Molly is your housekeeper. So do people outside. Not only have you never made mention of your marriage, you fail to see that your wife also doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Nor does she address you with any familiarity. You travel alone, you work alone, you have your own living quarters and for all the time I have known you, there has been no singular interaction between you two that may even _hint_ that she is more than an employee.”

John Watson’s voice had remained level but he was practically vibrating with anger.

That anger was turned a few notches up when his friend responded with an uncaring, “I provide her with food, shelter and clothing. She has definitely moved up in social standing because of our union. I don’t see the problem with her working around the house.”

Dr Watson sat back in his chair, “So why get married… why not hire a maid instead? So you could get your household chores done for free?” his voice rising.

Sherlock shot back, “Don’t be ridiculous-”

“There are more aspects to a relationship that just living under the same roof or providing cover. What about affection? Devotion? Caring about your partner? Things that define a marriage…what about those things?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself but no words came out.

“You have her serve you your meals but have never dined _with_ her. You have never introduced her to a single person as your _wife_. I am your closest friend, and even I didn’t know you were married. It’s not me who is ignorant Holmes; it’s you who are an idiot…a git in fact!”

The detective blinked, staring at his friend as the wheels in that massive brain started to turn. He had always known that he fell short in understanding emotions and the rules of human interaction, but this was an embarrassingly poor example, even for _him_.

Sherlock visited his Mind Palace, reliving all memories of Molly and realised Dr Watson was telling the truth. She had done a lot for him, for which he had barely acknowledged her. His interactions with her or with others in her presence gave no clue to their state of affairs. He had always been brusque or downright rude most of the time, with polite dismissals the only redeeming point. And there was no smidgeon of affection, just a bare minimum level of politeness.

He finally, albeit reluctantly, admitted that Dr Watson was right, and that he, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s best detective, was wrong. Truly, colossally wrong.

Realising this, he got up and started pacing his parlour, puffing away on his favourite pipe.

“I admit that for once, by some rare happenstance, you are correct, my dear Watson. I have seen the error of my ways. And I mean to correct it as soon as possible. Tomorrow’s Times will carry a notice mentioning Molly is my wife and not my housekeeper. That should address the misunderstanding about our relationship status. I will also try to be a little affectionate towards her…as a matter of fact, I will start that right this instance! I have seen how married men bid their wives good night…not much trouble in replicating that!”

Dr Watson was stunned, then was about to slap his own forehead but stopped half way and instead jumped out of his chair and grabbed his friend mid-stride out of the parlour.

“You will do no such thing!” he spit out.

“And why not?” Sherlock asked, a frown on his face.

“Oh dear God,” Dr Watson rubbed a tired hand over his face. “First of all this isn’t about you, it’s primarily about Molly. A sudden announcement of this nature will raise suspicion as to the intent behind the notice…you do realise it’s been more than two years since your marriage. Now she may not be a lady of the house per se, but that doesn’t mean her social standing can be ignored. A scandal may follow her and no woman will tolerate that.”

Both friends stared at each other, waiting for the other to back out. Sherlock finally sighed and nodded his head. “Please continue…and you can let go of my arm now, my fingers do need blood circulation to function.”

Letting him go, Dr Watson soldiered on. “Secondly, any show of sudden, overt affection will definitely scare the poor woman out of her wits. So you have to slow down, Romeo.”

“ _Who_?”

“Nevermind. The point is you need to think things over from her perspective. You told me your mother convinced her to marry you…ok, ok, _arranged a liaison…_ by calling past favours. Molly follows your family’s expectations to the letter and fulfils all her tasks without a single complaint. But that’s not all she’s done, has she? She has made this your _home_ …you said that yourself.”

“That’s her role as a housekeeper.” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I don’t think you see her only in that role though.” There was a shrewd look on Dr Watson’s face. “From what I have observed of _you_ since the knifing incident, you seem... to notice her more. You are definitely more polite…and no, it’s _not_ because she helped you that day.”

Sherlock looked more defiant than anything in face of his friend’s accusations.

“I don’t-”

“ _Instead_ I believe you have started to appreciate her other fine qualities. She does intrigue you Holmes, do not lie. I have seen you look at her…you are not _that_ subtle. I will go so far as to say that you are taken with her.”

Sherlock refused to bow down to his friend’s ministrations, getting ready to counter all of his friend’s deductions. But his thoughts were derailed by the laughter that was now shaking Dr Watson.

“It’s taken two years of marriage and a hit with a frying pan to make you realise you like your own wife …and you have no idea what to do about it.”

Dr Watson’s laughter was infectious, and as Sherlock acknowledged begrudgingly, there was truth in his words.

After both the friends had quietened down, with the doctor wiping tears of mirth from his face, Sherlock asked him solemnly. “I have been a practical man all my life Watson, holding cold reason dear above all. I have never been involved emotionally, and as you have rightly pointed out, may do Molly more damage than good in my endeavours to do so. I guess what I am trying to say is that I may need your guidance, as you are wont to.”

“Oh Holmes, this is so _you_. Doing the right things…but in the wrong order.” Dr Watson shook his head, looking at his friend fondly. “Of course I will help you. And here’s I think what we need to do.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Patience was a virtue that Sherlock wasn’t very well acquainted with, but was forced to practice; Dr Watson had been very clear about it. “Things won’t change overnight, Holmes. You have to give Molly time to acknowledge and accept that her role isn’t just restricted to being your housekeeper…and that _you_ are more than amenable to her extending her influence. _And_ you need to be subtle while conveying it to her.”

Subtlety; yet another aspect of human behaviour that Sherlock needed to learn. But he was nothing if not a quick learner, and it showed.

A particularly exciting case took him and Dr Watson out into the country, providing the perfect opportunity to present his wife with something simple yet meaningful. Something that was socially accepted…but of course presented with a Sherlockian twist.  He had seen young gentlemen presenting their lady a flower or two, so he presented Molly with a box filled with flower petals instead. _All the essence of a big bouquet but still discrete_ , he said, at which Watson frowned yet nodded his head, a bit proud and relieved that his advice was being heeded to.

But Sherlock did not take into account Molly’s acute tuning to his thought process. She had had more than two years of dedicated practice in predicting his moods and needs, also bearing witness (and frequently being at the receiving end) to the whiplash that occurred when she fell short.

So although her reaction was to be expected, it instead surprised the detective.

The next morning Sherlock found the petals sorted as per their flowers; some soaked in water, some placed on a pan on a burner, some soaked in spirit, some placed next to the pestle. It took him a moment to recollect his discussion with Watson on the extensive use of flowers used indoors in the East and the positive effect of their fragrance on human psyche. He had made an offhand comment on his plans to experiment to determine which essence was the best. It just never occurred to him that Molly would remember and consider the gift as ingredients for an experiment.

Sherlock couldn’t determine if he was pleased or disappointed...while at the same time, Dr Watson could not decide if Sherlock was to be pitied or envied.

“This means we have to tone down the subtlety and be just a little more upfront, Holmes. It looks like your housekee-, sorry _your wife_ , is way better suited to you than I previously guessed.” Holmes grunted his approval. “Of course I would have tried to point out that the petals were a gift, instead of proceeding with the experiments-”

“Why? It would’ve been a waste of perfectly good ingredients as well as her efforts…thank god at least one of you understands!!”

And things continued in the same vein, till the case of Herr Grunberg and the Misplaced Ballet Slipper, when Sherlock had to attend the Opera to spy on the Austrian aristocrat. And a female companion was essential to ensure he merged well with the crowd.

He realised it was the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: on one hand, he could move ahead towards solving the case and on the other, interact with Molly in a social setting, away from the prying and judgemental eyes at Baker Street.

So he sent a message with one of the Bow Street runners, asking that he wanted Molly to free herself from her chores that evening, as he needed a female companion to visit the Opera. Also, considering the stiff necked gentry attending had minimum appreciation or interest in the music and more interest in the way their fellow attendees were dressed, he also specified the dress code for the evening, asking her to buy a dress in red (seriously, he was aware and considerate enough to know that she might not have a dress fancy enough for Opera).

As he reached the said venue, he was greeted by a young woman dressed in red, with her hair coiffed perfectly and the string of pearls around her slim neck completing the regal and beautiful picture.

“Who are you? Where is Molly?” he demanded.

The woman smiled, whispering softly, “Oh you forget me Mr Holmes, just as Miss Hooper warned. I am Elizabeth, from the Rowlings Theatre Company…I had accompanied you on an earlier _errand_ , posing then as your bereaving sister-in-law? My repute seems to have improved, considering today I play the role of your companion. Are we posing as married? Do I need to wear a ring?”

Sherlock later assumed that he must have made the necessary response, seeming as the lady (actress?) smiled and perfectly played her part the entire evening. But he had almost missed the clues that he had come looking for, feeling a bit bereft that he had missed an opportunity to spend time with his wife.

“You forgot again Mr Holmes, Mr Rowling had offered you his help anytime you needed. Asking him to send that actress seemed a much better option, and right too.” Sherlock did not disagree with Molly, instead just stomped off to his rooms.

It suddenly seemed very difficult, this wooing business.

“You did not give her any indication that you wanted _her_ to attend the event and not just have a companion to merge with the crowd. I did say tone down the subtlety Holmes, not send out wrong signals. She is well versed with your traits; you need to separate solving cases and solely concentrate on trying to make Molly feel…special.” Dr Watson did not spare any words, after initially becoming angry at his friend and then outright laughing at his attempt to have a social evening.

“Oh Watson, all this correct behaviour…this social etiquette…I do not have the patience for it. I will invite my wife for dinner at home and explain…things. I am sure she is intelligent enough to understand.” Sherlock refused to acknowledge the cynicism on his friend’s face, nor agreed to him offering to mediate between the couple. “She is _my_ wife Watson and I will convey my regards to her personally. I do not need a chaperone for it!!” Dr Watson was not a religious man, but he sure did send out ardent prayers to whichever deity was listening…he hoped that Sherlock did not scare or worse, insult his wife in his endeavours.

“I need you to sit with me while I dine Molly. If you chose to have your meal at the same time, I will be further honoured. I need to discuss something very important and your presence is essential.” Molly had looked a bit uncomfortable at his invite, pursing her lips as she regarded her ‘employer’. She finally agreed to present her company, but refused to have dinner with him.

“I _did_ tell Ruby to not polish that skull so hard…he must’ve noticed that its chipped and  now needs an alternate target to speak out loud to. Cook, do keep the meal aside for me, I have no idea how long his thought process will take this evening. I was so looking forward to a quiet and early evening.” Sherlock overheard Molly speak to the cook, and frankly wondered if his wife was, in fact, daft…just like Watson chose to be at times. She thought she was being a replacement for his skull?? He knew there were times when he was thinking and hadn’t realised if he was talking loud or no…but surely it wasn’t _so_ regular.

When Molly finally presented herself for dinner, he chose to ignore her and then asked her to leave altogether. Used to this change in behaviour, she retired to the kitchens.

It was as she lay in bed that night that she acknowledged that she had indeed been looking forward to spending the evening listening to him as he made his deductions. She had earlier been a witness to that fabulous brain working and enjoyed its fascinating display. Sherlock was extremely intelligent, basing his conclusions on facts and was rarely distracted by person or surroundings, class or beauty. She found his acute emphasis on details admirable, his focus on solving the mystery almost…attractive (though she admitted this to herself hesitantly). He wasn’t too different than her when it came to concentrating on getting the end task done.

But she shook herself, reining in her thoughts. It was dangerous to let them drift down that path, she scolded herself. Just because Sherlock had admitted to their marriage in front of Dr Watson, did not mean things were going to change. Things were fine just as they were and that’s how they should continue to be, she firmly convinced herself.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my hand at first person narration and had a blast. And the Sherlock Special just made it even easier to visualise the below scenarios.

It was like watching a drama, where the characters are in the dark about the other person’s role. Actions that might otherwise seem obvious were lost in translation. Intentions were given a twisted meaning. The waltz between Holmes and Molly vacillated between funny and frustrating from my point of view. My friend, though terribly clever and possessing a mind that could rival the best, who could find and solve the most obscure of clues, could be perfectly blind and daft in some of the most basic human interactions. Molly, on the other hand, was better versed with the ways of the world, but seemed just so focused on her daily tasks that, on occasions, she almost… _almost_ fell into the same league as her employer… no, I stand corrected, her _husband_.

As I witnessed the attempts by Holmes to convey his newly acknowledged feelings, and then the fallout of those attempts, I realised it was time to intervene, in order to prevent a blowout of huge proportions. Holmes was perfectly capable of insulting and then outright dismissing people when they didn’t fall in line, but he simply couldn’t afford to do that this time; his aim was after all to woo his own wife.

Since providing hints or pointing out the direction in which his actions should be addressed to make a positive impact fell on deaf (or I suspect, _unwilling_ ) ears, it was time to be direct and spell it out to my dear, floundering friend.

“Do you know anything of Molly’s likes and dislikes? I am sure you can deduce the same pretty quickly…” I gently inquired. Holmes had become pretty sensitive whenever the subject of Molly was broached, but there was no side stepping this basic information.

“I have plenty of other things to occupy my mind Watson, rather than identify what gossip she likes or what brain dulling activities she indulges in; embroidery and knitting don’t seem too fascinating, nor does scandals occurring amongst the season’s debutants.’ Holmes huffed, as I mentally acknowledged my  good decision to broach this subject beyond the walls of Baker Street; I wasn’t sure how strong the threads of matrimony would hold in front of such disparage. “She definitely missed the point of all my efforts. Maybe this current arrangement is apt; she is well suited for the mind numbing menial work and I do what I do. Why disturb a perfectly working mechanism, I ask!!”

I dropped the subject, as the more pertinent matter of the mysterious markings on Sir Edward Woodland’s will came up. No use distracting Holmes from a case that was occupying his mind and thus helping him put up a more genial persona. After all, I had had my fill of irked aristocracy for the week, thank you very much.

But it was during the quiet period of basking in the satisfaction of a job well done, that the façade of indifference cracked a little. It was in retrospect that I recollected the brief yet regular interaction between Holmes and his housekeeper after each case.  A simple exchange of “So the case is solved Mr Holmes? – Most definitely Molly” that put a slight (although smug) smile on my friend’s face. I doubt even he was aware of its constancy, but then the most miniscule of things are noticed only by their absence. Today, the almost severe air around Holmes made such exchange impossible, although I was aware that Molly did make the attempt, swallowing her words at the last instant. I couldn’t decide if Holmes seemed displeased or relieved by this.

But it seemed my earlier query continued to weigh on my friend’s mind; he seemed more annoyed, if that was possible. It was one rainy afternoon that he finally exploded. “ _Charcoal…She indulges in charcoal sketches_.” It confused me, since the discussion had been associated with the Queen and her policies in the Orient and the resultant increase in crime.

“The _Queen_?” The look of confusion on his face surely reflected my own…till the penny dropped. “Oh… _oh_ … that’s nice Holmes. Good observation,” I stuttered.

He sneered but didn’t say a word before raising an impertinent brow and continuing his dissection of the latest article in the day’s newspaper.

“Good place to start you know. You could encourage her-”

“What! Frame her art and post it along the staircase? Or get her a tutor?” His tone dripping sarcasm, he dismissed my words.

“I was going to suggest presenting a few charcoals and paper but you seem to have better alternatives.”

He seemed a bit miffed that I had wrong footed him, but I knew he was considering it by the very fact that he huffed and immediately dismissed it. Although his method of presenting the said stationary could have been improved on; stalking up to the recipient and forcing your gifts in her hands while putting on a fake smile and then leaving with a saccharine “Do put these to good use” didn’t seem the best approach.

I didn’t blame Molly for being thoroughly bewildered and looking at me for counsel.  I just shrugged, mentally admiring her resilience in putting up with Holmes…till I thought I caught a faint smile on her face as she moved to leave the room. But the bewildered expression was back when she turned to bid me goodbye, leaving me to wonder if I had imagined it.

If I thought the stationary incident would act as a deterrent, I was proven wrong; it instead acted as a catalyst. A few days later, Holmes approached me and slapped an envelope next to my cup of tea. Knowing there would be no further explanation, I opened it, to see a ticket to the latest exhibition on Egyptian relics held at the Metropolitan Museum. “She is interested in pharaohs and mummies.”

“I get the interest in history, but embalmed dead bodies…wont that be a bit tough on Molly’s sensibilities?” I inquired fully confident that Holmes had given no thought to that possibility.

Instead, he smirked. “Au contraire, dear Watson. Dead bodies and the mechanics of embalming fascinate her, I have seen her trying to be surreptitious and read the books I have on the subject matter. Though I really shouldn’t have startled her then, that shriek…” he muttered those last words.

As I took a deep breath and prepared to lecture him on the art of presenting a gift to a lady, the subject of our discussion appeared as summoned. This time though, Holmes stood in front of her, handing over the envelope and raising his brows till she opened it. Her face flushed when she saw the contents, the reaction bringing a small but smug smile to my friend’s face. “And of course, you can take the day off as well…a tired mind might make mistakes even in regular tasks,” he added with a pleased smile.

Molly had looked pleased, till she blinked at his words and said with a small smile “Thank you sir, you are very kind. I will ensure the household is informed beforehand.”

Saying which she left, leaving me sighing deeply and shaking my head at my slightly bewildered friend. “Almost there Holmes, almost there…till you reminded her of her capacity as your housekeeper.”

“But wouldn’t it inconvenience her if she had to complete her chores and _then_ attend the exhibition?”

“Again Holmes, good intention but incorrect implementation.”

It was later that evening when I happened upon Molly clearing away the dining room, that I apologised on my friend’s behalf.

“No apologies needed Dr Watson. By now, I am well versed in Mr Holmes’ use of the word though I do wonder as to the reason for these largesse,” saying which she turned to leave.

“Molly,” I interrupted her departure, as I needed to address a few doubts that had sprung up in my head. “If I may ask, how long have you known Holmes?”

She hesitated, visibly weighing her answer. “I knew him for about eight months before we moved to London…when I worked with Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper of the Holmes Manor.”

Ignoring her nervous demeanour, I ploughed on. “Pardon my saying so, I mean it only with the highest respect but…it’s just that-”

“I am a trained governess Dr Watson.” She cut in. “But I was out of work and Mrs Hudson was at her wits end finding someone who could work with Mr Holmes. So, needs must.” She shrugged.

“He doesn’t suffer fools gladly Molly. For you to work with him…for such a long period of time…you judge yourself too lightly.”

She gave an awkward smile, wringing her hands as she spoke, “I look upon him as a man of science Dr Watson, and so are his needs and demands. It’s not that difficult to manage his household if you keep that perspective.”

“Hmm, I agree Molly. He is indeed fortunate to have found someone who understands him so well. And then there is your… _personal arrangement,_ ” she coloured a bit at this.

I moved towards the parlour door, fully intending to leave, but turned with my hand on its handle. It had been weighing on my mind for some time now, and particularly after speaking with Molly, my thoughts just refused to remain silent. “For someone so well versed in his ways and methods, it seems improbable that you are missing the point of his recent behaviour Molly…or as you should be rightly addressed, _Mrs Holmes._ ”

I knew my behaviour had been almost un-gentlemanly, but the look of shock on Molly’s face was the only proof I needed to have my doubts confirmed.

Holmes wasn’t doing it wrong; rather it was the reluctance or the _deliberate_ obtuse behaviour of his wife that was proving to be the obstacle. Molly Hooper was proving to be an enigma, and for the sake of my friend (as well as his wife, if I were to be honest and admittedly, a little out of line) I fully intended to get to the bottom of this mystery.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your lovely response to the first person narration...here's more and I am not to be blamed for it ;)

A brand new case arrived on the horizon, having a good amount of supernatural feel around it. It was based in the country, near Dartmoor. It sounded lurid and fascinating and had us packing our bags and heading out from Baker Street immediately. A glowing hound, a last of the line of an illustrious family…these were the perfect ingredients to distract my friend from the gentle melancholy he seemed to find himself while at home. There were a few more attempts by Holmes to entertain his wife, who seemed bent on missing the point each time. My earlier judgement was now all the more clear; Molly _was_ deflecting his attention and the last few times even gave me beseeching looks to intervene.

I had asked Holmes to directly speak with her and get things sorted. “That would ease matters by a great fraction, my dear Watson, only if my wife doesn’t choose to scamper away like a frightened rabbit each time I try and approach her. Why, last afternoon it took me two attempts just to convey that my wishes were limited to cups of tea!” Holmes fumed. He was disconcerted by this simple mystery at home and so this case away was a perfect opportunity to recoup his thoughts.

And what a mystery it turned out to be!!

“Phosphorescence, dear Watson. Nature has so many tricks and mysteries hidden up her sleeves, its-… _why has my brother been visiting in my absence_?” Holmes bellowed the moment we entered the front lobby of 221B Baker Street.

Molly ignored the question and after greeting us, went about collecting our coats. “I trust you had a good trip, gentlemen. Would you prefer to freshen up and take your meal here, Dr Watson?”

“ _I_ would prefer an answer to my question. Why was my brother here?” Holmes persisted.

“Lord Holmes wanted to meet you, said he wanted to forewarn you about a client you might expect,” she sighed.

“Did he say more…no, he wouldn’t have, would he. And I guarantee that he’s left no notes to further clarify… has he already left London?”

“He said he would be in town for a few days, but would be busy-”

“Stuffing his face, no doubt. The smoked pork at the Diogenes club is responsible for the continuing happiness and employment of his Lordship’s tailors.”

“Holmes, you are sounding like a petulant child! Your brother may have paid just a perfunctory visit-”

“My brother seldom pays heed to such actions, Watson. Every breath he takes has planned purpose behind it!”

And so the detective stewed all afternoon and the next few days trying to decipher the reason behind his brother’s unannounced visit. With no current case at hand and the telegram he had sent to the Diogenes remaining unanswered, he continued to be in a strop, the high of solving the Baskervilles case all but forgotten.

Until the doorbell rang to (hopefully) provide a distraction in the form of a new client. But his reaction when Molly announced the new visitor surprised me…for a second he looked taken unawares…but of what I couldn’t deduce.

 “Miss Violet Hunter, Mr Holmes.”

“…so _that’s_ why Mycroft was here...” he muttered under his breath.

He stood straighter when a young brunette was shown into the sitting room. She paused in the doorway, looking at him with what looked like contrition on her face. She was extremely handsome; holding herself like a lady of good means but who I could see was now facing tough times. I cleared my throat, introduced myself and offered her a seat.

Holmes continued to stare at her for a moment before taking a deep breath and putting on his fakest smile. “So…what brings you here?” He was direct bordering on insolence so I sent him my most annoyed frown which had the usual effect; water over a duck’s back.

The lady hesitated, wringing her handkerchief. “Er…I needed some advice Mr Holmes.”

“No, I meant what brings you here…back to England.”

I looked up in surprise at Holmes’ harsh tone, wondering at the same time what aspect of the lady gave away her recent travels.

“No, my dear Watson, my knowledge of Miss Hunter’s travels is based on something as mundane as a letter she had addressed me…a long time ago.” His voice had gained a resigned note by the end. “Let us start again Miss Hunter. What brings you here…to _Baker Street_?”

Miss Hunter took a deep breath and started her story. She hesitated initially, when she informed us (Holmes to be more precise, I was as of yet unacknowledged) of her family’s return to England under sad circumstances and in dire financial conditions. Her family had suffered huge losses in the Orient, her fiancé (I saw Holmes stiffen a bit at this) had broken off their engagement and she had to finally look for an opportunity to gain an occupation to ease things a bit. Which brought us to the case, a welcome arrival as could be seen from the more relaxed demeanour of the other two occupants of the room.

She had been offered a wage of 100 pounds per year, which was then raised to 120 pounds, to take up the duties of the governess at Copper Beeches. Mr Rucastle, the owner of said property, had placed only one condition; she had to chop off her tresses. She had found the whole affair a bit murky, but she couldn’t place her finger on what made her particularly uncomfortable. Holmes paid her utmost attention as she further detailed her story, finally asking him if he would agree to help her.

“I _will_ help you, Miss Hunter. You should resume your duties with immediate effect…just send us a telegram if any incidence makes your anxious; Dr Watson and I would get to Hampshire with haste.”

Holmes was uncharacteristically calm once she had left, though Molly came in to check after him more times than what was normal. There seemed to be a history between Holmes and Miss Hunter, that was clear for anyone to see, but the details were all in the dark. My queries about the same were pointedly ignored.

We soon got a telegram from Miss Hunter, requesting our immediate presence at Copper Beeches. There was an urgency in Holmes’ movements which was a mite different than usual, but then it could’ve been due to excitement…the game, after all, was afoot!

It took us a few days to solve the mystery, at the end of which Holmes paid Miss Hunter a fond farewell.

“Till later, Miss Hunter…or Violet, if I may so forward.”

She inhaled sharply before smiling, “Of course Mr Holmes…forgive me…I was young then…and-and-”

“Nothing to forgive, things do work out in the long run...a broken engagement has its privileges…” Saying which he doffed his hat and started walking away, a “Watson, shut your mouth” thrown at me.

Throughout our return journey, I tried to ask him to further clarify what his concluding comment to Miss Hunter meant, but he was (pretending, if you ask me) deep in his thoughts…or Mind Palace, as he chose to call it.

The matter was delegated to the back of my mind the moment we entered the rooms at Baker Street. “ _My brother has been visiting again_. Molly, please do insist on refusing him access the next time he arrives in my absence.”

“Oh Holmes, you and your drama…” I sighed as I passed him and headed to the sitting room. Where I was surprised to see the actual subject of Holmes’ strop.

“A good trip I suppose, Dr Watson? Considering the volume of my brother’s protestation, I would assume a successful one too…”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting Sherlock; I do have to report back to our mother about your health and general wellbeing. All is well, I presume?” Lord Mycroft Holmes, older sibling, involved with the British government, cleverer that Holmes junior. All these factors would intimidate any person, and that was before you met him. For while Holmes was all energy bubbling under the surface waiting to escape, Mycroft Holmes was like a calm sea, hiding deep turbulent currents beneath its vast intellect. Always a thorough gentleman, one could be forgiven for assuming he was simply a dignified peer of the realm and nothing more. At your own peril, that is.

There seemed to be a silent conversation between the brothers, I could almost feel words being sent back and forth on transparent threads. I had been a witness to this phenomenon before, but that didn’t make me any more comfortable.

Holmes spoke just as I decided to finally intervene and remind the brothers of my presence. “I assure you, brother dear, there is no need for your concern. The case has been solved and life as it is has returned to its tedious, boring normalcy. I am sure Dr Watson will bear the major brunt of my boredom if the next case is too long in its arrival. You can leave, and do give a true, positive report back to Mother.”

I wasn’t sure if I should feel proud or exasperated by his announcement, but then such had become my role as a pacifier to the oldest _child_ I had encountered, if I may be so insolent.

The next few days had us dealing with another of Mycroft’s visits as well as telegrams from Lady Holmes herself. (I had yet to have the privilege of meeting her, as she was touring the Orient and Egypt, but she must have a formidable persona as I had never seen Holmes sit up straighter and faster than when Molly announced _the telegram_ from his mother) With no new cases on the horizon, my friend was turning more and more bad-tempered, giving me no opportunities to inquire after his history with Miss Hunter.

But it had a silver lining, at least from the housekeeper’s point of view. There were no more overtures made by Holmes and the relief for the same could be seen on Molly’s bearings when around him. But there was a certain keenness in her gaze that wasn’t there earlier, an alertness that slowly and gradually faded away, bringing things back to normal. Or what was considered normal at 221B Baker Street.

I realised I had spoken too soon, when after the very next few weeks, the world that my friend seemed to inhabit with such disdain, turned on its head.

It was a sunny afternoon, with the weather finally giving the inhabitants of London respite and shining on us with some much needed and much missed sunshine. Holmes had received a call from the police and such had helped solve a case that had been puzzling them for some time. More to say, he was in good spirits.

It was in such a scenario that the housekeeper made an entrance into the parlour, on surface looking calm but the wringing hands betraying her nerves. There was a serious air about her, as if a decision had been contemplated and finally arrived upon. Correctly guessing that she wished to have the conversation in private, I excused myself, finding a perfect reason to stretch my legs in the sunshine outside.

I returned back within the hour to find an air of conflict in the house.

“What wonderful timing Watson. The one time I would’ve really appreciated your help, you choose to scamper around London.”

I was used to his harsh tones by now, and correctly interpreted that some skirmish of a personal nature had occurred.

“What’s going on?” I asked, ignoring the rolling of his eyes.

“What’s going on is that my housekeeper has got into her head that working somewhere else as a governess would enable her to live in circumstances much better than these. Even when told that the salary Rucastle offered Miss Hunter had a purely morbid reason underlying it, she refuses to see sense. She has put in her resignation. And as if that was not preposterous enough, she has also requested for an annulment. The world has turned mad and there is only so much sense I can make from it!”

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. I knew there had to be more to this announcement than what was told to us, but I could see that Holmes was too agitated to see that. I went in search of Molly to know the details, but I was informed that she had gone outside to run some errand. An errand that was still unfulfilled by the dinner time, when we received a telegram stating that she would be staying away to take care of some urgent personal matter.

I could see that the whole thing made no sense, especially to my dear friend, whose disposition vacillated between intense displeasure and utter confusion. In fact when next day a telegram was received, requesting all of Molly’s possessions to be sent to a certain address in the country, Holmes made no fuss but just handed over the matter to the house maid.

“They say one shouldn’t meddle with a mechanism that’s running fine. I have no need of emotional entanglements as sentiment merely clouds the brain and I cannot... _will not_ have that again. It’s for the best that Molly has moved away. Without that small distraction, I am sure I will be able to resolve any mystery with even less time and effort.” A tight smile on his face, Holmes retired within his own mind.

Life went on as usual the next few months, albeit along with a couple of unwarranted visits from Lord Holmes and the arrival of the new housekeeper, Mrs Hudson from the Holmes Manor. The cases kept coming and my friend and I were always on the move, chasing down the perpetrators of crime. It was a hectic time, but helped retain my friend’s sanity and hence mine. But the schedule was taking its toll, so the day after our latest case was solved, I decided to take up the offer of a former colleague of mine, Michael Stamford and meet him at the London School of Medicine for Women. It was an honourable institution, enabling women to take up medicine and practice it. I didn’t see why the uproar or the deep discussions over the sciences affecting women’s sensibilities. They worked wonderfully as nurses and saw almost the same things that a doctor did and did a bloody good job, if you pardon my language.

Meeting Stamford further laid truth to what I had always thought and assumed; “These female students are twice as sincere, hardworking and equally brilliant as their male counterparts. They are all wonderfully capable Watson. Society as a whole would benefit tremendously when they start practicing. To think some of them have spent time as nurses or assisting a family member on the sly. Then there is a young woman who joined us this year, she spent years as a governess and then a housekeeper, if you can believe it…extremely sharp and observant… We shall pay Watson, for keeping deserving human beings away from education, mark my words.” Stamford muttered, shaking his head.

Something rang a bell. “A governess you say. What’s her name?”

“Oh it’s not proper for me to divulge-”

“Is it a Miss Hooper?” I forged on, cutting his apologies.

“You know her then? She is one of the quiet ones, but extremely brilliant. It’s just been a few months, and I know it’s just the first semester, but I can see the spark-Watson-…where are you going?”

“Has the class dispersed for the day? I have an urgent errand with Miss Hooper.”

“Watson, you cannot just interact with these students like that!! We have to be very careful to ensure that they are never left un-chaperoned, at least within these walls. There are many powerful people just waiting to find a reason to shut us down.”

I agreed with him wholeheartedly and dropped the matter momentarily, though I could barely sit for the excitement I felt. This was good news! I was a bit surprised that Holmes had made no effort in trying to trace Molly’s whereabouts, but then who could predict how the wheels turned in that prodigious mind! On the surface he seemed to be unaffected, but I had known my friend long enough to recognise his little insinuations, after all he was a creature of habit. And what worse a habit to have, than getting used to having a person around you and then that person leave. And if that person happened to be your lawfully wedded wife…well, then woe betide you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Molly's pov. And I leave it at that.

It’s the end of another long and tiring day as I finally lay back on my bed, too exhausted to do anything but stare out of the window at the streetlamp. It’s funny how one can invest so many emotions in an inanimate object, but that lamp has been a good companion and my sole source of solace. It has seen me learn, adjust, unravel and most important of all, it has seen me without my mask.

These past few months have been like a dream. Who would have thought that a lowly maid, who dreamt of being a governess, would one day be studying medicine in an esteemed institution? That instead of having utensils and cutlery, I would be holding medical equipment, reading texts of science instead of laundry or grocery lists, working gruelling hours not to clean and scrub a house, but to enlighten my mind and unravel the mysteries of the human body; learning the science behind living, instead of merely existing.

I do not scorn my earlier days, for they have taught me well. I have honed the art of working towards my goal ignoring exhaustion, using taunts as fuel to work a step further towards improvement, blocking the mind from all protests the body makes… especially the heart. Oh that finicky organ, equally capable of making or breaking a person.

But I won’t give up, I just cannot afford to…in rare moments of weakness, I do acknowledge the huge price I have paid.

Getting entry within the sanctified walls of the London School of Medicine for Women had seemed like the biggest obstacle; now I know it was just the beginning. Chancing upon a flyer for a meeting held by Dr Sophia Jex-Blake, the shimmer of an opportunity dancing at a distance, communicating with the said lady and being able to _begin_ dreaming…it all seemed so long ago. I have seen the cruel side of the gentry but also have been the recipient of their kindness (as the past two years bear witness). Dr Jex-Blake was able to garner a scholarship from a source that insisted on remaining anonymous but was generous enough to help a poor student. I can understand the blanket of anonymity; it’s not easy to be seen portraying such forward thoughts amongst your peers, but the mere existence of this institution shows that such a thread does indeed flow through the minds of some of the moneyed.

It has been extremely challenging to find accommodation within my means while admitting to be studying medicine as people have found it morbid, unladylike. I have just enough savings to ensure a roof over my head, though it does not necessarily leave me with enough to fill my stomach the end of each day; again a practice I am not a stranger to although the habit may have been broken the last couple of years living at 221B.

Again, I steadfastly refuse to think of my time at the Holmes Manor or Baker Street, though that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. I know it’s the exhaustion that’s causing such securely locked thoughts to seep through but as I admit in silence and in privacy to that lamp…I miss Baker Street…I miss _him_.

I think back to my long journey, from those days when I was a frightened and lowly maid, trying her best to assist the housekeeper as the younger son of the house suffered through a malady that had him shout incoherently for hours, shivering one moment and then sweating rivers the next instant. “It’s the descent from hell!” Mrs Hudson had whispered, wiping away her tears. That was how I had seen him first, tied to the bed in loose binds that allowed free movement but not too much. He was twisting and turning, thrashing about and moaning an injured sound. I had never seen a more pitiable site. His mother, Lady Holmes, sat by his head, wiping his face, drying the spit, cleaning the sweat; maintaining her composure as her younger son dealt with the self-inflicted agony.

“Cocaine!” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “Oh what did that boy think to inject that poison in his veins? He’s done this before, but it has never been this bad…I’ve never seen Lady Holmes this scared…and she’s seen some conflicts in her life!”

I had been the young girl helping Lady Holmes deal with the monster gripping her son and I had stayed with him when she retired to take some rest, which was rare and only when her older son insisted. I had been privy to the face beneath the mask all the Holmes wore, had seen the human beneath their haughty cover, the love beneath the scorn, the worry beneath the flippancy…the fear beneath the indifference. They were all human, maybe even more than the others I had seen in my young life.

“Miss Violet Hunter confessed to him that she had entered the engagement only on the insistence of her family, though he professed that he had guessed that much already. The boy sees too much. All his life, he has tried to fit in. And now…this was the last straw…he isn’t lovelorn, Molly dear, I think he is just tired of standing out…tired of trying to blend in…being seen as different. Even by someone who has been his friend for so long, as Miss Hunter was,” Mrs Hudson sighed. “Can’t really blame her too…oh, that acerbic tongue of his!!” It was an indication to how disturbed Mrs Hudson was that she spoke so freely about things that I promised myself I would never repeat. His recovery was slow the few times I saw him later, his unearthly eyes moving around rapidly, taking in everything, wanting to absorb nothing.

I had received news of my new station as a governess a few weeks later; it was a small village and the family wasn’t too well off, but they had young children and I was ready to move above and beyond my current situation. My last memory of Sherlock Holmes before I left was him throwing a vase against the wall in frustration, fighting the poison that beckoned again.

On my return a few years later, he was healthy and I was sickly, the rough life having taken a toll.  As I started working at Holmes Manor again, I was at the receiving end of that “acerbic tongue” more than a few times. My knowledge of his sufferings, of him feeling caged by that brilliant mind helped me deal with all the insults he threw my way. But it was my often ridiculed (and severely rebuked) curiosity about nature and her workings that had me help him with his often morbid experiments. With the stark reminder of what it felt to be empty, my stomach held on to its contents; few things repelled me enough to make me green and none of them were of his doings. But I _had_ almost blacked out when asked for the favour by Her Ladyship. I had always admired and respected her from afar, having seen the mother beneath the haughty mask, so there had been no question of refusing her; I had become Mrs Sherlock Holmes out of a deep feeling of gratitude towards her as well as deep respect for a man whose genius had proved to be his major fault.

It had been a comfortable though unique arrangement. I slipped into my role as his housekeeper the moment I arrived at 221B Baker Street; grateful that Mr Holmes refused to acknowledge me as anything but. I was tasked with keeping an eye on him, to inform his brother if I ever thought there was a ‘moment of potential danger’, all the while remaining unobtrusive. If he knew of this arrangement between his family and me, he never mentioned it. It further helped in cementing my role in front of the others living and working in that house.

Life at Baker Street was different; fast, exciting and it kept me on my toes. Mr Holmes initially started working with the police, helping them whenever they faced a difficult situation. Slowly but surely his fame spread, attracting all sorts of people towards him; clients as well as criminals. His meeting and befriending Dr Watson provided a huge sense of relief for us all; the good doctor was the steadying effect he needed, the friendship proving to be a balm for his nerves frayed by the idiocy of humanity. Though I still stayed alert; the usefulness of which was proven when I had to use my skills with a pan to rescue him from an intruder. How dare that lowlife attempt to injure such a great mind…till date my blood boils at the memory.

Looking back now, I realised things had started to shift after that incident. Mr Holmes started to share details of his cases with me, in turn encouraging me to ask questions, observing my reactions with that all seeing gaze of his, sometimes speaking nothing but holding me captive in that indulgent heavy silence. It was a new side to his demeanour, but one that I assumed I could deal with.

Till he called me his wife for the first time ever, that too in front of Dr Watson of all the people. I prayed that it would be one of his poor attempts at humour, but I was knocked off kilter when he persisted, leading me to finally confess and yet reiterate my standing in that household to poor Dr Watson. If he looked surprised and upset, he had no idea the chaos those words created within my well set life.

There were subtle changes in his behaviour; he was more polite, more…respectful in his approach, though in some respects he was still unchanged. There was the weird box of petals he gave me, expecting me to remember his past discussion with Dr Watson about flowers and their essence. I could only imagine the fuss he would’ve created if I hadn’t prepared for his experiment. Then there was the invitation to accompany him to an Opera to solve a case. I was ready to work to the bone to attend to his needs at home, but I set the boundaries when it came to public interactions. The name of the Holmes family would not be sullied at my expense.

But nothing surprised me more than when he presented me with stationary for sketching. It was not something I advertised or spoke about, but then I _was_ working for one of the most observant of men. There were also the tickets to the Egyptian exhibition (I would have been more scandalised at the present if it weren’t for the recall of my scream when he found me perusing the book of morbid but very interesting embalming rituals) and the dinner invitation. There were frequent invites to join a conversation or to share a cup of tea with him. This behaviour all came up to a sum that I refused to add, as it was in isolation of any experiment or case. For a distant observer, it would look like he was trying to… _court_ me (it felt wrong even while admitting it to myself).

I strongly admonished myself for even forming a thought in that direction. I was entrusted with a pretty challenging task that was vital in ensuring the wellbeing of one of the most brilliant men around. He abhorred emotions, looked at things with an objective eye that provided a clarity seldom afforded to others. It was essential that an environment conducive to that be maintained. Our domestic arrangement was for _his_ convenience and I would be a fool to invest in it, his current changed behaviour notwithstanding; I was sure it was a temporary phase that would pass.

Though he had been in excellent health all this while, his family and I were always on the lookout to ensure he didn’t indulge in narcotics again. A critical test for him came up when he was faced with his former fiancée; in the following days I rarely slept if he was awake. I was alert, gauging and ready to deal with the change in his moods. It helped that Lord Holmes, Mr Holmes’ older brother, visited me with prior notice of Miss Hunter’s visit. Those were some tense moments for us, but we were relieved when Mr Holmes took on the case and solved it with enthusiasm. That was the final proof needed for Lord Holmes to know that his brother could deal with problems without having to resort to…that evil poison.

And it could not have come at a better time too.

For this was when I had come into contact and had started communicating with Dr Jex-Blake and had conveyed my wishes to learn at the esteemed institute. Once she confirmed the availability of a scholarship, I knew a decision had to be made that would change the course of my life. I had been wary while informing Lord Holmes of my decision to quit, not disclosing my real intention in case he disagreed with the idea of women as doctors; I wasn’t a simpleton to underestimate his influence. Instead I had informed him of an offer I had received that would involve travelling the continent. He had simply nodded and offered his assistance in lieu of my duties done towards the Holmes family, giving excellent references for my future.  

It was informing Mr Holmes that turned out to be an inconceivably difficult task. It took me almost a week to gather courage and then too I almost buckled when that blue-green gaze turned to me. I repeated the same story I told his brother, trying to emphasize on the good pay and opportunity to see new places, trying to come across relieved and excited at the new chapter. His mouth moved but no words came forth. After a few very uncomfortable moments, the only thing he said was, “You would need an annulment too, won't you?” I hadn’t given much thought our arrangement but the thought of nullifying it almost broke my resolve. Agreeing with him was the hardest thing I had ever done, it felt like my heart stopped. Those last few moments with him, when he wished me luck with a smile tinged with fondness as well as sadness, are forever embedded in my soul.

But as sleep finally beckons and I turn away from that lamp, I resolve to concentrate all my energy into my future endeavour; I could not possibly do it with one leg in the past. And it still feels devastating.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes had, in his career working as a detective, angered many people. It was a rare circumstance that visitors to his Baker Street residence left without feeling antagonised, insulted or in tears. The man was brilliant but had an acerbic tongue and caustic temperament that did not tolerate the mundane or the obvious and hence pleased very few. So the fact that he made enemies was to be expected. As his reputation grew, so did the class of criminal he had to deal with. Along with the regular ones, he started receiving cases that involved the Crown or peers of the realm. In short, his repute grew far and wide and hence attracted the attention of the unsavoury lot. Unknown to him (or unacknowledged, to be honest) his brother, Lord Mycroft Holmes played a big role in ensuring that his younger brother remained relatively unharmed. But even he couldn't prevent the next from happening; it was more of an eventuality, the culminating result of all of Sherlock Holmes' actions.

Professor James Moriarty was a very well-known professor of mathematics whose books were always popular, his lectures always sold out in advance and his thesis revolutionary. The brilliant mathematician, who had a very respectable standing amongst his distinguished peers, was also the mastermind behind some of the most clever and dangerous crimes being carried out, his reach spread across the country and also on the Continent. Holmes had heard his name being whispered in dreaded awe amongst the criminal class. He had yet to come face to face with the man, or find even the barest of clue connecting him to the mayhem being carried out. In short, he knew but couldn't prove a thing.

"He leaves his mark on every crime he conducts Watson, but it's almost always invisible. I know it's him, and from this I concur… _he_ knows that I know," Holmes muttered as he observed the envelope with dried pips inside. "It's an invitation to play the game...the most dangerous and exciting game we will ever be involved in. All hands at deck Watson, we're about to tread the most treacherous waters yet."

And how true were his words. What initially started as clever tricks with consequences affecting only those involved, slowly gave away to bigger, broader and more sordid crimes. The stakes increased, the subterfuge became more and more intricate until it was difficult to separate friend from foe.

"The spider weaves its web, and only it knows which threads will let it crawl across unharmed and which will snare its prey. I have encountered adversaries of various kinds, Watson, but none has made me stretch my mental faculties as Moriarty. He plays a dangerous game and it's only me who can stop him. Of course, unless he stops me first." One would think that Holmes would be worried in the face of such a dangerous enemy, but as Watson would always maintain, he seemed more thrilled than anything. His eyes had a manic gleam, an air of uncontained, vibrating energy surrounded him. He looked almost…happy. If Watson needed proof that his friend was a unique, singularly weird creature in his own right, it was there right in front of him.

And so began the game of hide and seek, of tricks and what at times seemed like sorcery, deceit performed at levels mere mortals could only dream of and had little to no chance of deciphering or understanding. It was as if Moriarty and Holmes were speaking in different language altogether, laying down rules and boundaries on a playing field that was by no way level. Lestrade suspected something sinister at play as the Scotland Yard was being called out to crimes getting more and more morbid and incomprehensible. Holmes was almost always on the move, a new case popping up the moment the earlier one was solved. It was a non-stop, constant barrage of puzzles being thrown at him, puzzles he revelled in solving. It was like watching a cricket match where the bowler was throwing continuous bouncers and googlies that the batsman was hitting over the boundary. But all it took was just one mistake for the batsman to lose his wicket. And the factor most common in these cases was fatigue.

Holmes looked happy; indeed he was manically delighted. But Watson could see how draining it was on the detective. He forgot to eat, drink or rest while on these soirees and his oft-tortured body could take only so much. It almost seemed like Moriarty knew of this tendency and was waiting for just the right moment, when the detective would be tired or down, to fire the next salvo. No amount of persuasion would do any good, Holmes insisted on playing the game nonstop. It was only when Watson threatened to hold him down and force food down his throat that he relented and ate his meals. But the situation was far from ideal.

"He will burn himself out with the constant flittering about, always on the move… can the two of you not rest for a while? I can see Sherlock has gotten thinner, I'm afraid such continuous and strenuous activities will affect his constitution," Mrs Hudson confessed her worries one evening to Dr Watson. "Also, I'm worried that…" she paused.

"Worried about what, Mrs Hudson? I know Holmes can be pretty stubborn but I'm sure he knows when to stop, though I agree he shouldn't be testing his limits as such," Dr Watson pacified her.

The housekeeper looked like she was about to clarify but instead pursed her lips and left the room, shaking her head and muttering, "Molly would've known what to do…she'd know the signs…"

For all the brusque and impolite nature Holmes almost constantly showcased, he sure did know how to gather people around him who cared for him, Watson mused, watching the housekeeper leave.

But Watson was at the receiving end of a tremendous shock when he was called urgently by Mrs Hudson a few days later. He had been resting after a particularly strenuous case, but he forgot all his fatigue when he was met with the site in front of his eyes.

Holmes was in his study, lying prone on the floor, in his dressing gown. An open metal box lay beside him, holding a needle and a syringe, along with a packet of powdery substance. He seemed to unconscious, uncaring or unable to understand the chaos happening around him.

"He uses recreational drugs?" Dr Watson's stunned words queried a crying Mrs Hudson.

"I was afraid this might happen. He has done this before, but has been clean for a long time. Molly used to keep an eye on him…I failed…oh my god, Dr Watson…what will happen now?"

"Did you try to wake him? How long has he been like this?" he persisted.

"He was awake when I retired for the night, was working or thinking about something…he was in that trance he goes into…I went to bed and when I brought him his breakfast, there he was, lying on the floor," Mrs Hudson responded in tears.

Dr Watson then got about trying to wake the detective, finally using water and being successful before he resorted to smelling salts.

"What in the- Watson! Are you out of your bloody mind?" Holmes spluttered, wiping his face and throwing angry glare at the other occupants.

"You tell me Holmes. I thought you were better than this…this resorting to narcotics." Watson's tone conveyed both disappointment as well as controlled rage at the detective's actions.

"Wha-Oh _do_ use your eyes, man. I didn't use any, the packet is unopened. I was actually fast asleep, as you have been haranguing me to do…is this how you treat all your patients, _Doctor_?"

His sarcasm was lost on Dr Watson, who was still livid. "Why in the name of all that's holy are you in possession of this poison, Holmes? If you don't intend to use it, why keep it? If you hadn't fallen asleep-"

"Then I would've been in my Mind Palace," Sherlock's angry tones cut in.

Dr Watson took a deep breath before continuing. "You haven't answered my question, why keep this if you have no intention of using it? By God man, if Moriarty were to get a whiff of this…"

"He _does_ know Watson! And he's been constantly needling me, playing with words. I needed to _know_ if I could resist the temptation…and if not, won't you rather have me with shot up with cocaine _here,_ rather than in some doss house? That was a deeply relieved sleep you disturbed, thank you very much!" Saying which, Holmes stalked out of the parlour and into his bedroom, shutting the door with a bang.

"That didn't end very well, did it?" Mrs Hudson said under her breath, flustered at what now seemed to be an over-reaction.

* * *

It was at the end of another busy and gruelling day that Molly stumbled into her quarters, bone tired and too weary to be hungry. It was one of those days when she wondered if it was worth it or did she even have it in her to get a medical degree. She had just sat down and heaved a tired sigh, when she noticed the telegram with her name on it. Opening the envelope, she looked at the message it contained.

**Faced and overcame temptation. You deserve to know.**

**Sherlock Holmes.**

Molly forgot all her fatigue, taking some time to read and re-read that message and trying to understand what it meant. She took a shaky breath, half in relief and half in despair.

She knew the only temptation that taunted Sherlock constantly was cocaine. She acknowledged how tough it would've been to stay away had she discovered he had started using again, no matter how much she tried to discipline herself. Though she was curious as to his need to test himself now she nevertheless was glad that he had come out a winner.

Also, _he knew..._ of course he did. She should've known that he could easily discover she had left her job as a governess within a few months and had enrolled in medical school. Molly didn't know how to process this information, knowing that he was aware of her presence in the same city. It shouldn't matter, she scolded herself, but as she lay in her bed and gazed at the lamp outside, she felt warm in that knowledge. She knew his difficult past; knew it was a tough battle he fought daily.

Don't read too much into it, she scolded herself. He was safe and healthy and he felt the need to share this with someone who understood the difficulties involed.

A sentiment she didn't get to enjoy for long, as it was mere weeks later when Sherlock Holmes jumped from the Reichenbach Falls to his death, taking Professor Moriarty with him.


	8. Chapter 8

There was a spring in her step as Molly left the hospital; it wasn't every day that a high ranking officer of the Scotland Yard praised you in front of the whole class. And especially since most of those classmates had looked down upon and ridiculed your choice of specialisation. She had a smug smile on her face as her interest in pathology and keen observation both paid off. She had noticed the marks on the corpse that the official mortuarian had failed to see. The fact that it led to capturing the criminal was the cherry on the cake. So when Inspector Lestrade praised and thanked her, she couldn't have felt prouder.

"Live with it, ladies. This 'quiet mouse' is going to do what she always dreamt of, no matter how morbid that dream sounds to you," she muttered to herself, walking home while holding the appointment letter with the official stamp close to her heart. She wouldn't be working in the mortuary in any _medical_ capacity as she would be a mere assistant. But she would get paid and that was saying a lot. And the fact that it was at the St Bartholomew's mortuary made the offer even more alluring. "Though it's no way a fair offer, I have to start somewhere," she sighed. And starting at Barts was as poetic as it could get, but she stopped her thoughts right there before they got melancholic.

Reaching her rooms, Molly decided to celebrate by having a glass of wine, the solitary bottle gifted to her just begging to be opened. As she inhaled its rich aroma and took a tiny sip, she felt its warmth flow through her. She felt relaxed after the longest of time. Her dream of being a medical doctor was fulfilled, even though it did not fit with society's definition of being a doctor. But then she'd already accepted that her interest lay more in investigating and understanding the intricacies of death, rather than in preventing it. Add to that she'd always worked better in a relatively isolated environment. Yes, she'd have to report and work under Dr Anderson, a man she had no respect for. She'd found fault in his work right from her initial training days… but then such were the times.

"I always assumed Mr Holmes was exaggerating but he was correct, the man indeed is a fool," she muttered, indulging herself in more of the drink. She later blamed the wine for momentarily loosening her strong grip on her emotions, causing her to tear up at the memory of the dead detective. "Oh Mr Holmes, if only you were alive!"

She'd been devastated by the news of his death but had buried her sorrow and worked harder than ever at her studies. Along with his death, what haunted her was the way she'd met him the last time. It was at the London School of Medicine laboratory, where she had been working till late in the evening, long after classes had ended for the day. She had been cleaning up after her as Mr Finch liked to have the labs clean when he locked them up for the day. She'd just finished and was wiping her hands dry when Mr Holmes stepped into the labs like it was the most normal thing to do.

To say she had been taken by surprise would be an understatement. She had not seen him for more than a year, the last time being the day she walked out of his Baker Street home. He looked thinner, almost gaunt but it was the look in his eyes that had her immediately worried.

"Mr Holmes, wha-"

"You're doing well, Molly," he'd continued as if she hadn't spoken, looking around the room. "Medical school, it suits you. I should've seen it earlier, should've taken cognizance of your interests…too many things left for too late," he sighed.

The emotions on his face further increased the feeling of dread creeping up her spine. She'd never seen him look so lost, so unsure, so…fearful.

"Tell me what's wrong," she'd asked.

He had smiled at that. "Always cutting right to the chase… I shouldn't have let you go Molly. But it worked out for the best; otherwise he'd have one more pawn to play with."

"Mr Holmes, I don't understand-" she tried to reason.

"Neither did I. All this while I thought I was playing a game… but now I see that it was actually a puppet show. And I was the puppet with him in control of my strings." He'd taken a deep breath and stepped closer. "I leave to face my toughest foe till date, Molly and I doubt I will return unharmed…if I do return at all."

"Mr Holmes," she had tried to sound strong. "How can I help up? What do you need?"

He had just stared at her, and then the mask was back. He had given her a curt nod and left just as quietly.

Just the way she had left _him_ , her alcohol fuel brained prompted. As her vision clouded and the tears finally fell, she freely wept for the man she'd come to know so well…the man they had all lost. The guilt that somehow she could have helped save him ate at her. So much so that it had taken every ounce of her strength to visit a mourning Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson had greeted her with a warm hug that soon turned into a desperate hold as she started sobbing uncontrollably. Molly had to control her own emotions as she consoled the old woman, whose cries had turned loud and echoed in the parlour. That was how she met Dr Watson, who had come rushing to check on the housekeeper.

His had blinked in surprise at the young woman in front of him before addressing Mrs Hudson in a curt tone, "I'm sorry Mrs Hudson, but I doubt you would find comfort of any sort with this woman. She has problems understanding emotions, just like Holmes did. Oh what a suitable pair they had made!"

Molly was shocked, her mouth agape. She'd always known that Dr Watson wouldn't have approved of her actions, that he would always see it as her _abandoning_ Mr Holmes…but she hadn't expected him to discharge so much bile. Mrs Hudson gasped and protested, "Dr Watson!"

"Why are you visiting now Molly? You had no qualms about leaving him. Have you come to confirm if he's really gone? Whether you truly are free? Well, yes you are, Molly Hooper, you are free to do whatever you want," he bit out, his eyes glowering.

"Yes she is!" said a strong female voice.

Molly turned towards the person who had spoken. It was an old woman, the way she held herself announcing her peerage more than the expensive mourning lace she wore. The familiar blue-green eyes were flashing, showing her displeasure. Molly hadn't seen Lady Holmes since her visit to Baker Street after they had first moved to London and she couldn't think of a worse manner in which she could've met her again.

"Lady Holmes!" she curtsied, feeling flustered.

"Molly," Lady Holmes acknowledged her, before turning to face the doctor. "Dr Watson, I hope to God it was your grief speaking. It doesn't befit a man of your stature to lash out at someone the way you just did. She may not say much, but believe me when I say that _that_ woman is as affected by Sherlock's demise as you are…maybe even more, though she tries her best to hide it." Her tone was polite, not once was her voice raised but Dr Watson looked thoroughly chastised.

Lady Holmes had a reputation for being tough as nails, something befitting the mother of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. But she was also fair, recognising frailty of human nature in face of extreme emotional trauma. At the same time, she expected each person to put ahead his best foot forward.

"As for her being _free to do whatever she wants_? Dr Watson, isn't Miss Hooper a human being? Why shouldn't she make choices that will improve her life? She is an intelligent, hard working woman…do you feel that she should've continued being a housekeeper all her life just because it was convenient for those around her? She was married to Sherlock, but you know that marriage was a sham. A sham that I myself orchestrated out of desperation to save my child. Sherlock was a shell of a man… _so_ susceptible, but Molly took good care of him, supported him all along. It was a tough journey and I will always be grateful to her for being there for him. And if she chose to get out of that arrangement…chose to follow her dreams…it was within her rights to do so."

Lady Holmes then turned her razor like gaze on Molly, who stood spellbound. "The choice to leave must have been difficult but the decision was only fair and necessary. The medical profession needs discipline, dedication and complete focus. Like any mother I adore my child, but have been long resigned to accept that Sherlock could be distracting in the most innocuous of ways. Also you assumed wrong when you thought you would bring shame to the Holmes family name by pursuing such an _un-ladylike_ line of work… Sherlock had been trying that for years," she said with a small smile.

There was silence in the parlour, Lady Holmes' words soothing as well as rebuking at the same time. Dr Watson broke the silence by clearing his throat, his face showing his mortification. "I am sorry, Molly...Lady Holmes. I didn't mean… _any_ of that. I am thoroughly ashamed of my behaviour."

"As you should be, Dr Watson. After all, Molly _will_ be one of your contemporaries soon," Lady Holmes said with a proud smile.

"Yes she will be, and a very good one, as I am assured." Dr Watson inquired. "Lady Holmes, I have no problem whatsoever in accepting a woman as my contemporary, but did she really have to leave Holmes," his voice cracked a little on the last word. "He wasn't as unaffected as he portrayed."

"I trusted her with my son's life when he was most fallible. Similarly I had to trust her instincts in knowing what was good for her." Turning to Molly, she continued. "Maybe I would've been able to convince you to stay Molly, but I didn't want to interfere anymore, Sherlock wouldn't have it. So I did the next best thing that eased your way," Lady Holmes said with an enigmatic look on her face.

It then dawned on Molly…her anonymous benefactor! She'd been initially suspicious of the relative ease with which she had secured her scholarship, but her subsequent actions had put that suspicion on the backburner. "It was the least I could do, to ensure that my _former_ daughter-in-law receive all the help she deserved. It was a very small price to pay for what _you'd_ done."

It was the kind look on Lady Holmes' face that almost had Molly undone. It was then she uttered her first words since arriving at her former home. "I feel…blessed, Lady Holmes. Thank you. I have no idea how I can repay you."

"By being the best doctor you can be Molly, God knows we need shining examples in today's day and age. Be the best you can, and be proud of yourself. I am sure Sherlock would've approved." It was only while saying those last words that her voice quivered. Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself and left the room, her head held high.

"Oh yes, Holmes would've definitely approved Molly," Dr Watson said, giving her an apologetic look. "He would've clobbered me over the head, as I fully deserve, but he would've been very proud of you."

Taking his words to heart, Molly had left Baker Street feeling lighter than in ages and more determined than ever to succeed. The discovery that her benefactor was in fact Lady Holmes, also helped in easing some of the guilt she carried for leaving Baker Street.

And now, holding the appointment letter close to her heart and finally letting her feelings flow unimpeded, she quietly said, "Thank you…Sherlock."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter kind of grew too long and I split it into two. I am not being a tease, I will post the next chapter pretty soon. You guys have been awesome.

Life as a mortuary assistant was hard work to say the least. Molly worked directly under Dr Anderson, who had never truly forgiven her for pointing out his shortcomings in front of Scotland Yard. Add to the fact that he wasn't the most accommodating man to have a woman work with him and things were always…interesting, to say the least. But she loved every minute of it, continuing to read and experiment in her free time to add to her knowledge.

Her favourite time to experiment was at the end of the day, when most of her colleagues had left and she could work without having to listen to their snarky comments. Molly was in the midst of conducting tests on her latest undertaking when she heard the lab door open and her colleague and fellow assistant Jonas Radcliffe enter. Ignoring him, she continued her work as Radcliffe sorted his stuff and went to pick his hat and coat from the stand near the door. Just before leaving, he turned around and commented with a smirk, "No use doing this extra work, _Hooper_. You won't impress anyone…certainly not Dr Anderson. Be grateful he lets you even work here…"

"Your knee must be hurting… _Radcliffe_ ," Molly commented without looking up. "All that sitting in one place while the young cleaner does your work. Maybe you should ask for a transfer, after all the cold morgue is no place for arthritis…even if its an imaginary one."

" _Imagi_ -…careful Hooper, better keep that trap shut and your head down," Radcliffe sneered. "Not everyone is as accommodating of a _woman_ in a morgue. Oh I know your deal… trying to impress Inspector Lestrade-"

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper. And you wouldn't know my deal even if I wrote it down for you, _Mr_ Radcliffe. And if I am indeed trying _and succeeding_ in impressing the good inspector, shouldn't you watch your words? You wouldn't want to antagonise your superior now, would you?"

Jonas Radcliffe huffed, but it was the truth. Though Inspector Lestrade was with Scotland Yard and not his direct superior, a complaint from him carried weight and could prove troublesome. Muttering under his breath and throwing Molly dirty looks, he grabbed his coat and hat and slammed the door on his way out. Molly heaved a sigh of relief at the man's exit, quite used to dealing with such behaviour. It was part and parcel of a woman working in a man's field and she had developed a thick skin right from her student days. But that didn't mean it wasn't frustrating.

Stalking right up to the door, she bolted it. She needed peace and quiet to work and a shut door was the only way to achieve that. "Let him complain about the locked door again…will cross that bridge when we come to it," saying which she inhaled deeply and started working again.

Squinting in the low light, she had started writing her notes when a deep voice interrupted her again, "I agree with Radcliffe…women in a morgue, what _has_ the world come to?"

She whipped around at those words, her face turning into a battlefield where disbelief warred with rising hope. She knew that voice, dripping with sarcasm and superiority. Was she dreaming or did she really need a break from work…was she going mad?

She stood rooted to the spot as the spectre of the dead consulting detective approached her, the smirk on his face slowly transforming into something warmer, more tender. If Molly had ever believed in ghosts, she would've definitely passed out but she didn't, so she stayed upright. She pressed her pencil point into her palm till it became painful, commanding her mind to overcome the fatigue and disperse with games it was so obviously playing. And yet the apparition in front of her remained visible, looking solid and very much alive, coming closer.

She raised a tentative hand to his face expecting to touch thin air but it collided with solid flesh instead. "Sherlock," she exhaled, while shaking her head, trying to make sense of the impossible. He shut his eyes when her fingers touched his face, leaning into her hand, which she snatched away whispering, "Impossible!"

"And yet…," said Holmes with a twinkle in his eyes. "When you eliminate all that's impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

It _was_ the truth, he was alive but she was having trouble believing it. And yet, if there was someone who could pull off such a subterfuge, he was the man.

To the unobservant eye he appeared intact, unchanged, unharmed. But he appeared leaner, there were a few new lines around his eyes that gave a hint as to kind of life he might have led while the close group of people around him mourned and tried to move on, struggling to pick up the pieces of their lives. Did he even realise how his death affected them? How they all struggled to move on? How dependent they had become on him, that he was the glue that held them all together?

They said that death affected the survivors more than the victims and they were all excellent examples of it. Molly had had her studies to bury her sorrow in, had a distraction. Inspector Lestrade had his work. Mrs Hudson had carried on living at Baker Street but she too looked like she had lost her zest for life. But Dr Watson…he had just withdrawn himself from those around him. Molly had visited him a few times after their interaction in Lady Holmes' presence. He had appeared more and more listless, becoming more reserved with time. The small group of people Sherlock called his friends had been shattered by his death, and though he would surely have a very good reason for doing what he did, it wasn't something that could be easily shrugged away.

He must have read this all on Molly's face as he got a wary look. "Well… I _was_ surprised by the welcome Watson afforded me," he said, tenderly touching his chin and getting a faraway look in his eyes. "Though in all probability…I deserved it."

He must've had a tempestuous reunion with his best friend, Molly assumed, but found it hard to find too much sympathy, recognising the signs of him zoning out and visiting his Mind Palace. She waited a few moments and then turned towards her experiments to start winding up; there was no way she could concentrate or even think straight right now. She still half expected him to disappear in a whiff.

"Interesting!" She was startled again by the deep voice, though this time it was way closer. She turned her head to see him now standing next to her and looking at her notes. "'Rate of coagulation of saliva after death'… a _useful_ experiment coming from the Barts morgue…you are already spoiling us Molly."

It hit her then just how much she had missed seeing him like this. It was all so familiar… the twinkle in his eye, the slight smirk, that slight crease between his brows. Would she have remembered these small and seemingly inconspicuous details, these little things that made… _him_? Would she have remembered that haughty brow, that aristocratic nose, those unearthly eyes? Or would it have become a blur as time passed?

She didn't realise she had moved closer to him, her fingers almost touching his cheeks when someone knocked on the door. Her eyes widened and she could feel her cheeks grow warm as she withdrew her hand, and turned towards the lab door she had bolted earlier.

"Hooper, you bolted the door again? This is my lab too you know…open the God forsaken door this instant or Dr Anderson will hear of it!" Radcliff's loud voice and his incessant knocking conveyed his annoyance. Inhaling sharply she moved towards the door, irritated at being disturbed before turning back towards the detective. But he was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into thin air just as he had arrived.

Later on, she had no recollection of what words were exchanged with her colleague. She almost thought she had hallucinated but for the small note in her book, that said "Day after tomorrow, 1pm, Baker Street."


	10. Chapter 10

Molly had reached Baker Street at the appointed time and was let in by a joyous Mrs Hudson. The housekeeper had hugged her and shed some tears again, though this time they were happy ones. Holmes was out but was expected to return soon. Molly, sipping tea in the sitting room, felt a bit odd playing the role of a visitor in her old house. But the same place felt so different since her last visit, the mourning atmosphere now replaced by an air of cheer and optimism. It almost felt like the old days.

There were a few additions to the rooms though, specifically what looked like a human skull on the mantelpiece. Picking it up gently and turning it around, she was surprised to see that it was-

“Real,” Sherlock Holmes’ baritone confirmed her conclusion. “Just a friend of mine, though when I say friend…” He was standing by the door, hands behind his back. He was wearing his camel coloured dressing gown, so he must’ve arrived some time back when she was observing the skull. “Please do be seated.”

She replaced the skull and with a small smile sat on the chair that was reserved for clients. There was a moment of silence as he took his seat and lit his pipe, the glow of the lit match illuminating his face, throwing sharp shadows as well as lighting up its smooth planes. The small flare threw contrasts, the high cheekbones against the full mouth, the sharp nose against the pale cheeks. Molly found herself mesmerised, and flushed when Sherlock caught her gaze, his lips twitching upwards. Twitching her hands nervously, she looked around the room until her eyes landed on a bunch of newspapers, with headlines screaming about the ‘Dead Detective’s Return’.

“The newspapers are having a field day with your return Mr Holmes,” she commented.

“Oh yes, the papers… Make me sound like some big hero. But then, the stories they published _earlier_ were as far from the truth as they could be. Watson was so incensed once, he’d threatened to write each case _himself_ ,” he sighed with a pained expression.

“He should then…he’s been the closest observer. I’m sure your cases would make wonderful reading-”.

“I doubt many would find stories about beheaded nuns or dismembered country squires _wonderful_ ,” he murmured with a twinkle in his eyes.

It was new, this sudden…openness in his eyes. He had always been such a reserved, private man… but now, those dropped shutters somehow made _her_ feel exposed and nervous.

“You wanted to see me?” she blurted out.

“Yes…yes I did. Have been sorting my things since I returned and came upon a few things I feel you’d appreciate better, amongst other things.” He went to the bookshelf and picked up a thick leather bound volume that she instantly recognised. It was the book on ancient Egyptian and other embalming techniques, a collector’s item she had always been fascinated with. “I no longer have a need for this, having experienced embalming first hand. Tomb raiders do not appreciate being disturbed, it seems. What an unfair world!!”

Molly could only stare at his smiling face. Had he just said he’d been embalmed by tomb raiders?

“Oh, they didn’t complete the process,” he read her mind as always. “They were disturbed by Egyptian police. Though in retrospect, they might as well have finished it…the fever and rash from lying in that solution made death seem preferable! But well, here’s to having a good constitution!!”

Molly failed to see the humour in his tale. In the light from the sitting room windows, she could see him more clearly…marks she had failed the see in the dark morgue. There were additional lines along his eyes, few more around his mouth. There was what looked like a scar from a serrated blade on the back of the hand that held the book, a burn mark on the wrist of his other hand. Looking up at him from her seat, she could also see a faint line around his neck…all the marks were faded but their reality hit her like a ton of bricks.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply to gather herself…just what all had he _been_ through? She got up and stood in front of him, her eyes tracing that beloved face.

“How _are_ you now, Mr Holmes,” she asked softly.

He frowned, looking down at her but sighed, turned away and sat down.

“I’m fine Molly,” he said signalling her to follow suit. “A little tired but fine.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I doubt you’re only a _little_ tired. It must’ve been exhausting, being on the move constantly, being alert…being _alone_.”

He’d turned sharply to look at her then, his eyes narrowing. “Being alone is what saved me Molly. I did what I had to and I didn’t waste time or energy convincing people about the morality behind each and every action,” he snapped. “What was done _needed_ to be done. I didn’t choose to be the person to do it, but God knows I wasn’t going to back down from seeing this…this _game_ to its end.”

“You call it a game, Mr Holmes? Faking your own death, being away from your home for three long years…I don’t see how that’s a game.”

“Because you weren’t playing it Molly. Nor were you a spectator, and be thankful for that,” he said in harsh tones.

The affable mask was gone. Sherlock Holmes was no more hiding behind it; instead he was letting her see the effort and pain he had been through while away. She knew he wasn’t particularly emotive and so, encouraged his expression.

“I am grateful you are back, safe and … with no visible injury. It must’ve taken a lot…bringing down Professor Moriarty’s evil web. That’s what you meant, didn’t you? When you said you had to face your toughest foe?” she asked kindly. “This need for subterfuge…a clean break so you could deal with him. He _is_ dead, isn’t he?” she asked after hesitating for a moment.

“Like a dodo,” he replied with a small smile. “And yes, Moriarty _would_ ’ve used people as baits. As a matter of fact, he almost did.”

They were interrupted at that instant by Mrs Hudson knocking on the door, a tray of tea things with her. Molly sprang up and gathered the tray from the old lady, being too polite to convey her disappointment at being interrupted. At the same time, Sherlock had no such inhibitions.

“I didn’t ask for tea, Mrs Hudson. It’s hardly been any time since you served me luncheon…are you trying to stuff me like a turkey?”

“Oh, Mr Holmes! You barely nibbled at your breakfast, the plates were almost full when returned. You’ve hardly eaten well since coming back…what will I tell your mother if she sees you all skin and bones?”

“You will tell her nothing…I am not a child anymore.”

“You could fool me,” she muttered under her breath as she turned to Molly. “And look at you, you are too thin…do take care of yourself, Molly love, I worry about you a lot you know. Being alone, working so hard…you’ll be exhausted.”

Molly ducked her head, those kind and genuine words suddenly making her tear up. But she took a deep breath and blinked any tears away before turning towards the housekeeper, this time with a brilliant smile and saying, “I will Mrs Hudson, I promise.”

Convinced that her words would be heeded to, Mrs Hudson left the room while reminding Sherlock to eat his food.

“That woman’s a hassle,” he complained.

“She just worries about you. She cares deeply for you, you know that.”

“Well, she sure does have a strange way of showing it!”

Molly chuckled at his almost petulant tone. He was still childlike when it came to understanding certain aspects of human behaviour.

“She does her best, Mr Holmes,” she said. “Ensuring you are well fed and looked after… that’s just her way of showing her affection.”

“Just like you did earlier?”

Her smile faded, shocked at his blatant words. His tone was challenging, daring her to deny what she’d said earlier. There was a stony silence in the room as their gazes held. Molly was not able to look away, even as Sherlock’s eyes softened a bit.

She was startled when he got up suddenly, clapping his hands while moving towards his bookcase.

“Well, before I forget, I need to inform you of a… mistake on part of the government.” He muttered while perusing his books, looking for what turned out to be an envelope that was addressed to her. “This came in while I was… _away_. There was no alternate address so,” he shrugged.

It contained the application for the annulment, a paper that Molly still felt dreadful holding in her hands. An accompanying letter stated that the application was incomplete, some mundane formality needed to further the procedure.

It was as if time had stopped…or reversed itself. She stared at the paper in her hand, afraid of what it meant for her…for _them_.

“I am in receipt of a similar notification. We can, of course, take corrective action immediately.” His words were direct, without any emotion but the look on his face was…wary, like he wasn’t sure of her reaction. Molly realised she had been staring at the paper in her hand for quite some time when he huffed and moved near her and asked impatiently. “Tell me, what do you want?”

There was an edge to his voice that gave away the fact that he wasn’t as calm as he looked. She had travelled to hell and back in his absence, an absence that had changed her in more ways than she could define. But she was more his equal than earlier; they were now on a much even keel. An even keel that gave her the final bit of nerve she needed.

There was just one answer to his question, an answer she’d never let herself admit before. As she stood up and took a hesitant step towards him, her voice was nothing but steady when she looked in his eyes and said softly, “You.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply at her words, his eyes narrowed. She knew it was now her turn to take initiative, and she could just about find enough courage in her heart. She hesitantly reached out to hold his hand, pursing her lips in anticipation. His hand was big and warm, soft in her calloused hand. Before she could lose her nerve she raised it to her lips, laying a reverential kiss on it. Looking up him, she hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, rising on her toes to lay a kiss at the edge of his mouth.

There was stillness in that moment, plenty of communication in that silence, their hands not the only thing that held them together. They had memories of growing, falling and learning together. Of seeing each other at their lowest and at their highest. There was so much life shared that no words could be enough, no language other than their eyes eloquent enough to convey what they both felt. What they had experienced. How they had learnt and hence, grown.

It was the culmination of all those factors, of all those instances that had led them here. This was their time, both standing out amongst their peers, both misunderstood, both foolhardy enough to follow their hearts. Brave enough to embrace its desires.

Their first kiss was chaste, as Molly leaned up and pressed her lips against his. His lips were soft, but nothing prepared her for the softness that now shone in his eyes. Eyes that further lit up when he brought up his arms to hold her close, traced her face as if recording each and every feature, before landing on her lips. When he kissed her then, it was as if a dam had broken.

It was passionate, unrestrained, filled with longing. It was a protest against the wasted years, wasted chances; yet sanguine for the opportunity the future presented. It conveyed all that was not spoken for such a long time…feelings and emotions that were excessive for mere words. They broke for air, both panting but bright eyed, exchanging slow and shy smiles. Sherlock tucked Molly’s head under his neck, holding her close, rubbing his nose in her hair. The moment was perfect for them both until Molly slightly pulled away to look into his eyes.

“I…I love you. With everything I have, with everything I _am_ …I love you,” she confessed, feeling a weight shift off her shoulders.

He blinked, as if surprised at her confession, before stammering, “Molly you…I-I couldn’t stay away…not ever again. I am just not that strong.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want…I _need_ you besides me. It won’t be easy.”

“It never was,” she whispered, tears finally escaping her eyes. He embraced her again, mumbling against her hair and holding her tighter. The future was away, the past was spent. The present was there, with him…in his arms, and it was the best gift.


	11. Chapter 11

“It’s taken so long to get you here,” he said softly, his eyes shining in the candle light.

“It would’ve been inappropriate earlier… _Sherlock_ ,” she smiled, still getting used to using his Christian name.

“Not going to get into an argument aout _that_ , I find the English language insufficient to detail the utter foolishness of propriety!”

Molly chuckled. It was a relief to finally get rid of all formality and express her amusement at Sherlock’s impatience with customs. He hadn’t let go of her hand since her confession in the sitting room, and now she felt her cheeks go red at the look in his eyes as he gently rubbed her wrist with his thumb. She was no longer able to hold his gaze that had turned almost…heated and possessive. She looked up at him when she felt him give her hand a gentle tug, but the moment was spoilt when Mrs Hudson opened the door and walked in with dinner, smiling happily at the blushing woman holding hands with her husband at the dining table.

“Oh, I can’t believe it…I just cannot believe it. It’s like the moment that keeps giving!!! Him… coming back from the dead and sitting in his chair…ordering me about like he’s always done.” Sherlock protested at this, but Mrs Hudson was unstoppable. “And now _this_ …you two…oh, I could die today a happy woman,” she sighed happily.

“Oh stop with the hyperboles…God isn’t ready to get troubled any time soon,” Sherlock huffed.

“Mr Holmes, I’ve known you since you were a baby. I’ve seen your brilliance in almost all things and then also your absolute idiocy. It took you so long to see what you had-”

“Yes yes, thank you very much. I’ve had a long time to think about that. Now do you plan to serve us food at all or was that tray just an excuse to disturb my first dinner at home with my wife?”

Mrs Hudson huffed but gave Molly a big smile.

“Thank goodness, I thought she would never leave,” Sherlock sighed when his housekeeper finally left the room.

“You care about her, it’s pretty obvious,” Molly remarked with a smile while starting to eat.

“My affection for everyone in this world is ‘pretty obvious’ to you, Molly, just chose to be blind at times, did we?”

Her smile faded at his remark but when she looked up at him, his eyes were twinkling. He was teasing her and she blushed when she realised that. There were so many new aspects to his personality, as she was discovering.

They continued eating in a comfortable silence that was broken by Sherlock’s chuckles.

“Didn’t realise you were so hungry,” he said with a smirk.

“Sorry, it’s a habit – eat well when you can,” she responded, her dimples showing.

The significance of her casually thrown words wasn’t lost on Sherlock, who looked grave as he placed his hand on hers.

“Molly, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”

“You have no reason to apologise. I knew what I was doing. It’s fine.” She really hadn’t thought or moped about the difficulties she had faced. Thinking about them wouldn’t have solved them and frankly, she just didn’t have the energy to spend on what she saw as whining. She told as much to Sherlock, who just shook his head, now caressing her hand with both of his.

“You could’ve stayed here and studied. Do you really think I wasn’t aware of your interest in medicine or the fact that you had met Dr Jex-Blake,” he sighed. “But it was safer for you this way. Even Watson didn’t know it then but I was already in Moriarty’s sight.”

She blinked as she processed his words, the food momentarily forgotten. “Are you telling me that all that time… you knew about it?”

“Yes,” he replied emphatically. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that Professor Moriarty was the toughest foe I had faced. There were whispers of his involvement since a long time…whispers that faded the moment you tried to hear them. Even the British government was in the dark about his details. He saw things differently. He checked his facts, understood how people behaved…identified their weaknesses and only then made his move. He would’ve known everything there was to know before he made contact with me.” He paused then, taking a deep breath before looking at her with the softest look on his face.

“Letting you go was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done Molly.” He took her hand and kissed her palm, smiling as she shivered at the delicious sensation. “And it’s not something I plan to do ever again.”

“Dessert!! We _have_ to celebrate this day!!” Mrs Hudson again interrupted their private moment. Sherlock just rolled his eyes in a resigned manner and accepted his coffee, making Molly giggle and then attack the grandly presented dessert in front of her.

As she finished and waited for her husband to light his pipe, she finally summed up the courage to ask something that had been bothering her. “Sherlock...the annulment...there was no small detail left in the application, was there?”

He had the decency to look a bit abashed. Looking down at the pipe in his hands, he nodded and after a pause said softly, “But if something were to happen to me or...or you were to meet someone...Mycroft would’ve taken care if it....he still will.”

“Good to know that.”

He looked up at that but when he saw her twinkling eyes and that impish grin, he sighed and gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “This still feels like a dream Molly. I still expect to wake up and be all alone.”

“Oh Sherlock, this isn’t a dream!”

“So I won’t wake up alone?”

There was no humour in his question; he asked it in all seriousness. It was a valid query, how would they practically move on from here? Would they make a belated wedding announcement in the papers, or just let their close friends know? Would there be a scandal? There probably would be, considering the parties involved: _any_ news about the resurrected detective raised eyebrows, no matter how silly. Now it would also involve a _female_ doctor working in the _morgue;_ it was a scandal just waiting to happen, no matter how the news broke. Molly also had no doubt about the fact that acceptance from society was a long way in coming. But she had paid her dues… they _both_ had…and when they actually owed none!

In the end, the decision was simple.

She walked up and knelt in front of him, holding his hands and looking deep into eyes. "No Sherlock, you won’t wake up alone…not if you don’t want to!"

This time when he kissed her it was a kiss heavy with want. It was possessive, heated and it made Molly feel like her whole being was celebrating being a woman. As her hands moved from his chest to hold onto his shoulders Sherlock moved his hand into her hair, causing the stern bun she tied to fall loose. Tangling his hand and pulling her tresses slightly to expose her throat, he then started laying open mouthed kisses down her chin and along that pale white column. He gradually moved to her pulse point, nipping gently and causing her to gasp. It was as if that sound made him throw all caution to the wind, nuzzling into her neck till he encountered the high collar of her dress. Trying and remarkable failing to put his erstwhile dexterous fingers to use unbuttoning the top buttons, Sherlock actually growled as he simply pulled at the offensive garment, ripping it apart to finally get access to her neck and shoulder.

Molly was simply burning. She was a doctor; she knew and studied the human anatomy. But no amount of education had prepared her for the sheer deluge of sensation flooding her whole being. And it wasn’t restricted to the physical, she felt overwhelmed emotionally too. It had been tough times, seeing Sherlock’s genius struggle for breakthrough, agreeing to be a safety net for him, coming to know him closely and seeing the wonderful human being that he was. Deciding in her own mind that she needed to do more to match up to him, daring to dream, learning from his bravery and taking the plunge…it was all worth it. And it was always heading to this moment, in his arms…as his wife, as his partner.

Molly let all her inhibitions fall away once she managed to coax her very enthusiastic husband to continue his ministrations but in his private quarters. She gloried in the worship he bestowed upon her. She was an equal and enthusiastic partner, blinking through the momentary pain to further explore the nooks and corners that made up her husband. A word she was only too happy to use in all its entirety.

The next morning Molly greeted Mrs Hudson and the breakfast tray at the bedroom door, dressed in an oversized dressing gown and blushing comely. As the housekeeper winked and handed over the tray, she whispered, "I just returned from your dwellings with your essential things Molly. Do let me know when… or _if_ you need them anytime soon." She tittered as Molly's blushed even more. 

The newly united couple was now ensconced in a bubble of happiness, learning a little more about each other and enjoying their new discoveries. They were in the sitting room, Sherlock enthralling her with his travels to the exotic regions of North Africa, when reality in the form of Dr Watson, accompanied by Inspector Lestrade, knocked on their door.

Dr Watson stopped short at seeing the detective in such good humour, but was further surprised to see Molly in attendance.

“Molly! Or I should say, _Doctor_ Hooper… how nice to see you.”

Molly smiled broadly at the man who looked like he had been injected with life itself! He looked completely different from the defeated man she had last encountered within these same walls.

“Good to see you too Dr Watson… Inspector Lestrade.”

“Well, wonderful, everyone has said their hellos. Now you may leave. I am busy.” Sherlock interjected.

“Busy? What, a case already? And here I thought _I_ was being hasty in asking you to help Scotland Yard!” Inspector Lestrade exclaimed.

“Yes, a case…a case of the absentee husband. Something I have full intention of getting to work on with minimum delay.”

The kind Inspector frowned in confusion, but Dr Watson’s face morphed from confused to disbelief to joyous in a span of seconds.

“Holmes!! Have you two…oh thank god, _finally_!! Oh this is brilliant news, congratulations Molly,” saying which he kissed Molly on her cheeks and heartily shook the detective’s hand.

Inspector Lestrade looked more confused than ever, so Sherlock asked him in an exasperated voice to state the case confounding Scotland Yard.

It didn’t take more than a few words of description before the detective looked interested, firing more questions, his eyes lighting up.

“Oh, double murders, separate locations, seemingly unrelated. This looks like an eight Watson! Let me grab my coat.”

But he stopped when Molly coughed gently, the excited look on his face morphing into a guilty one. Looking apologetic, he turned to Watson and Lestrade and was about to refuse them when Molly interrupted. “Are the pathology reports in? Didn’t we have a similar case last week from near Brighton?”

“Dual double murders,” Sherlock whispered in awe.

“I think that qualifies as a nine, don’t you think?” Molly asked her husband, a smile on her face.

Grabbing her face and kissing her in full view of the others, Sherlock happily announced, “You are the best, Molly Hoo-…Dr _Holmes_. I think you should get ready too. I would need a trusted pair of eyes at the morgue!”

“ _What_? Dr _Holmes_? When did that happen?” Inspector Lestrade spluttered.

“It’s a long story, my dear friend.” Dr Watson replied, leading the man out of the door.

“Come now, wife. We have a pair of dead bodies waiting for us. And Radcliffe to slag.”

“Sherlock. I have no doubts that the man is a slob, but promise me you won’t insult him or…or deduce something. I don’t want a cry baby on my hands!”

“Oh no, I am not going to get involved at all. I am just going to watch as you put him down without even looking up from your bench. You have no idea how attractive you look when you do that,” saying which he kissed her again.

“Oh Lord, am I going to have to deal with all this _everytime_ now?”

They hadn’t even realised that Dr Watson had come back for them. Sherlock huffed and Molly blushed, apologising and grabbing her coat. Just as they were about to leave the house and board the waiting hansoms, Sherlock bellowed, “Mrs Hudson, going out for a case, the wife coming along. Might get late, the wife too. But keep the food ready!”

“But Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson protested as she hurried out to the door, “weren’t you planning on going on a honeymoon?”

“What? With dual double murders happening? _Molly_ wouldn’t hear of it,” saying which he winked at the old lady and jumped into the hansom already occupied by his wife.

“No she wouldn’t, would she,” the housekeeper muttered, fondly shaking her head as the horses drew the cab away.

  
x--JUST THE BEGINNING--x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a line and tell me if you liked it! Like a pal just reminded, its my longest multi chapter fic!! And I would love to know how i did!


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